Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88490 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 442(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Oh, man. My eyes sting like crazy as I listen to my baby brother repeat those lovely words. Because I know he’ll make good on them. And Wes is looking back at Jamie like he’s hearing words of love for the first time in his life. Like he’d better not breathe because he might miss something.
And I want that too. I want someone to look at me like they just won the lottery. And I want to feel sure that I have too—that I can say “forever” and know I’m making the absolutely right decision. I’ve been in love before. A little. But never like that.
When it’s Wes’s turn, he lifts his chin in preparation.
The minister feeds him the first line: “I, Ryan, take you, James, to be my friend and husband.”
“I, Ryan,” his husky voice repeats, “take you, James, to be my friend and husband.”
“To be yours in times of plenty and in times of want.”
“To be yours in times of plenty…” He clears his throat, and his cheeks pink up. “And in times of want.”
“In times of sickness and in times of perfect health…”
Wes repeats each line slowly, though his voice becomes a little rougher each time. “I promise to cherish and respect you…”
His eyes are wet now, and I clutch my flowers a little more tightly. Come on, sweetie, I silently encourage him. You’re almost there.
I feel Jamie lean forward a degree or two, squeezing Wes’s hand.
“To care for and protect you,” he gets out. Then one fat tear launches itself from his eye and down his rugged cheek.
My heart breaks into little tiny splinters. Maybe I didn’t enjoy planning this wedding, but I’m sure as hell happy to be part of it now.
“And stay by your side forever,” Wes finishes eventually.
Noisy sobbing can be heard from the front row. It’s Dyson, of course. I force a smile onto my face so I don’t start crying too. Though in my peripheral vision I notice plenty of people dabbing their eyes.
“By the power vested in me by the State of California,” the minister announces with a smile, “I hereby declare you legally married. You may kiss your husband now.”
Wes lunges forward and wraps Jamie in the tightest hug I’ve ever seen, like he’s needed to do that for hours. My brother pats his back and turns his head to kiss him, and everybody cheers.
The musicians begin to play again. Dyson weeps loudly, and everyone gives our men a standing ovation.
Ladies and gentlemen, my party planning career has peaked. I’ve helped create magic, and I never need to do it again.
Chapter 5
Purr-fection
Blake
Jess knocked this wedding out of the park. I don’t know why she was stressing so hard, because everything is purr-fection. The ceremony, the dinner, this kick-ass reception. Everything.
I don’t think a single guest is having a bad time. Folks are dancing and chatting and munching on the five-tiered wedding cake that I forced myself to have only one slice of. If not for my solid good judgment, I’d already have eaten four of the five tiers.
I eat tons.
Right now, I’m focusing on drinking. Wesley and J-Bomb sprang for the good stuff—the serving staff is handing out bottomless flutes of Cristal and Dom, and there’s an entire table of craft beer on the lawn. I chose champagne. I’ve always loved weddings. The cake. The bottles of Dommy P. And since I’m never having a wedding myself, I might as well enjoy this one.
“Hey! You’re one of Ryan’s teammates?” a female voice coos.
I shift around to see a hot redhead in a hot-pink dress. Tricky color combo, but she pulls it off.
“I’m a huge fan,” she continues.
“Really? Hockey fan?” Jamie always tells me that hockey isn’t big in Cali.
“You are so built!” She squeezes my biceps over my jacket like she’s at the grocery store trying to pick out a ripe melon.
I tolerate this because it’s my champagne-holding hand and I’ll probably spill the Dommy P all over myself if I make an abrupt movement. But my Spidey-senses are tingling. There’s something about her that rubs me the wrong way. Make no mistake—I love having a chick’s hands all over me. But at least buy me dinner first. And I’m not one hundred percent sure that my big fan even knows my name.
“What’s your favorite thing about hockey?” I ask.
“Just…all of it,” she says, sweeping hungry eyes over me.
“Me too,” I admit. “Did you see that game between Miami and Seattle? Crazy, right?”
“Great game.” She nods enthusiastically, her hands on my lapels.
Ah, hell. I knew it. Miami doesn’t even have a team. My interest in this conversation dies a fiery death. Don’t get me wrong, I have no issue with women looking for hockey players or women looking for sex. But what I can’t stand are phonies.
My headache gives a stab, and I rub my temple.